"Peanut butter and jelly."
I glance down at my list. "Fav—"
"Strawberry jelly," he adds decisively.
I nod slowly, brows high. "Favorite season?"
"Winter."
"Least favorite season."
"Winter."
I pause my series of rapid-fire questions. "But you just said—"
He holds up his palm to face me. "It's a love-hate relationship."
I tilt my head and turn my lips down. "Actually… I totally get that." Brett smiles, either at me or at the fact that he fished another M&M from the bag of mostly nuts. "Okay, favorite childhood memory?"
"Pass."
My eyes perk up from the list in my lap and meet Brett's as he chews the chocolate. "What? No, you can't just pass. Where's the fun in that?" His shoulders lift as he takes another sip of his drink, then swallows down his gulp. "Come on, what's your favorite memory from when you were a ki—?"
"I said pass, Brooke."
He wipes his mouth and replaces his lid. His tone and expression are both stern, a complete contrast to his usual merriment, and before I can react, the door behind us clicks open. Brett's head swings toward the noise, but my eyes are still stuck on trying to read him.
When he tips his chin up toward the entrance to the lounge, I finally pull my eyes away. They land on Drew, who looks unbothered, his body relaxed, coffee in hand. Brett and I both smile at him, and the corners of his lips curl up as he passes. Burns waves and sinks back into the couch. I, however, am stuck with the image of him with his new hair and same swagger, and now, thanks to Brett's words, have a growing urge to show him just how much I care.
Our time after the cemetery was brief. I had to meet Brett back here, and Drew was getting calls left and right the entire ride over, which he actively denied. But I felt closer to him today than I ever have. I never realizedthatwould make me want him even more physically—I guess I never let myself get to this point. But since we got to the arena, melting into him is all that I can think about. I was doing a good job at ignoring my need until now—until he entered my space and brought with him our usual, unbearable tension.
"So, what else you got for me?"
Brett's question pulls me back, but now I'm the one distracted, no longer able to disregard my pull to Drew. I follow him as he walks toward a seat in the opposite corner of the room, falling into the chair and propping his feet up on the coffee table in front of it, his eyes lingering on Brett and me. "Uh, tell me about something your fans might not know about you. Something fun."
I drag my gaze back to Brett in time to see his face light up, but I can still spot Drew from the corner of my eye. Tapping my knee, Burns stands and plops down next to me, pulling up the Photos app on his phone.
For a second, I worry that I might regret this whole thing. Once because I suddenly can't focus with Drew seducing me by merely existing and once for the fear of what Brett may be preparing to show me. Both of my worries are calmed—at least momentarily—when the picture he clicks on is of a cream and orange tabby cat, with piercing yellow eyes and a tiny pink nose, sitting on a windowsill.
"Oh my God, Brett," I squeal. "You have a cat?"
"That's Sid," he says, his smile growing from ear to ear. "Sidney Clawsby."
I scoot closer and take the phone from his hand, and when I do, the thump of Drew's feet sliding off the table grabs my attention for just a second. I glance up to find him now leaning forward in his seat, his forearms resting on his knees—slightly less unbothered. I ignore his sudden shift and zoom in on Sid's little face.
"How did I not know about him?"
Brett shrugs. "Honestly, I don't know. I talk about him all the time."
"Wait, I thought I told you to tell me something the fanswouldn'tknow about you."
He holds his pointer finger in the air. "Uh uh, you saidmight.And I don't pass up any opportunity to talk about my boy here."
I shake my head, swiping on the photo to another one of Sid, and momentarily getting lost in Brett's feline friend—or family maybe with how he's talking. This one is of him in Brett's arms, the two of them wearing matching bow ties. "Shut up," I say loudly, bringing my knee upon the couch and turning toward him. I look at Brett, my mouth hanging open, and he winks before nodding toward the photo.
I nudge my shoulder into his, and he reaches over me casually. "Oh, just you wait." He scrolls to another photo of Sid wrapped up in a lush white blanket in the middle of a king-size bed. "I treat my pussy right," he says.
Laughter rips out of me that has nothing to do with his innuendo and everything to do with picturing Brett Burns, NHL defenseman, wrapping a cat up in a throw. I bring my thumb to the screen and slide to the next image, expecting to see a picture of Sidney Clawsby in shoes or a stroller. Instead, I not so gracefully stumble upon Brett in possibly the tiniest boxer briefs known to man, pulled so low that he might as well not be wearing them at all.
